


Hunt

by Wicked_Seraph



Series: Tricks and Treats (Halloween 2020 Drabbles) [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, This Was Requested As "Something Yandere-Ish" and "Spicy", Unreliable Narrator, Vampirism, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: Blood was always sweeter when fragrant with terror.[A small drabble created as part of a request fill challenge.]
Relationships: Alphinaud Leveilleur/Warrior of Light
Series: Tricks and Treats (Halloween 2020 Drabbles) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995367
Kudos: 10





	Hunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nereidere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nereidere/gifts).



Blood was always sweeter when fragrant with terror.

And Alphinaud, bless him, masked it poorly. He tried, of course; he swallowed the lump in his throat and kept his hands busy to hide how they trembled the second he heard her footsteps.

Once, it would have moved her. Once, she would have pitied the way he curled in on himself, drawing further from his sister and the other Scions as Azura's gaze clung to him like a miasma. Their concern had begun to wear thin as his restless dreams leaked into his wakefulness. His crisp, precise diction became mottled and nonsensical. Azura was dead -- had been for years -- and yet he spoke of her as if she'd lain with him the night before. He spoke of warm breath that had long since stopped and laughter that had been silenced.

The boy refused to speak with chirurgeons, with Scions. He refused all help, culminating in a desperate roar as he lunged at his sister -- "it's her, IT'S HER, I can SMELL her," he'd stammered, eyes wide and manic" -- with unnatural strength.

Alphinaud had resolved their quandary, escaping through a broken window -- though, they noted, the shattered glass should had left him bloody and mangled, and yet there was no blood to be seen.

As if someone else had broken it. As if someone else had helped him -- or stolen him.

Her prize -- her lover, her fount -- lay unaware of her reverie, enjoying what few moments of rest she'd granted him.

It was cruel, she thought, that she should love him so intensely. She could not sleep, could not dream (how she wished the myth of vampiric sleep were true; wakeful daydreaming was hardly the same); she envied that were he able to truly understand the depths of her affections, he would be able to dream of her. All she had was the present, the immediate. How could he possibly understand the agony of the tortoise falling for the fly, with its evanescent lifespan? How could he possibly sleep, knowing how short their time together would be?

She couldn't tell if it had been days or months since she'd begun their courtship. The dark circles beneath his eyes had become deeper. The briefest moments of silence were enough to make him drift into uneasy sleep, startled awake by his own mounting paranoia.

The aroma of his fear was rich and decadent enough to make her mouth water. She wished she could have tasted his desire -- but this would have to do. Fear and lust were but different hues of the same color, and she was patient enough to wait until the shade of his attentions transformed.


End file.
